Progression

Rusty doors and corroded bars mirrored both sides of the hallway. The only discernable factor were the crudely written numbers etched onto the stone walls above the cells. Silence stretched from one end of the hallway to the other. Not a single bedframe or mattress can be seen in these cells. Incarcerators had the joy of sleeping on the freezing floor with only the clothes on their body to keep them warm.

Within a cell marked “1325,” a boy lied on the comfort of the ground with rough, stubby pebbles scattered throughout the room. He suddenly sprang up, panting and wheezing, uncontrollably sweating as if he had a nightmare. Morr quickly checked the wounds on his chest and abdomen. He took a long, deep breath and exhaled in relief. The scars on his body suggested that his wounds had more than enough time to recover.

How long was I unconscious for? Morr pondered. His concern for time stem from his childhood when he woke up early enough to bask in the warmth of the sunrise. That beautiful orange-tinted sky, the cool and refreshing morning breeze, and the relaxing aroma of mother nature was something he could never forget. Thinking about it, Morr realized how pointless it is to be concern over a trivial thing. There was nothing to greet him with a smile when he woke up. Only the things he grew tired of accompanied his every living second.

The torch outside his door was weak and feeble. The weak light emanated from the torch couldn’t even penetrate a tenth of the darkness in the room. Not a second longer did he realize where he was. He detested this place with all his heart. Recent memories – memories that he struggled to suppress – began resurfacing. Those days spent on counting seconds, hoping that help will arrive, reminded him of how weak and foolish he was. That day, when he committed his first murder, further drove him from who he was… who he really is. The repulsive memory of eating whatever was forced on him for the sake of sustenance made him want to vomit in spite of them.

No, now is not the time. Going by previous occurred events he had an idea of what’s coming next. There was one memory he was fond of: the fist that would’ve taken his life. Before he fainted, his eyes were fixated on that ever so slowly moving fist. The power behind that fist was unreal, the likes of which he had never seen before.

It was something like… this! Morr lifted his arms, extending and contracting them, in an attempt to replicate that one move. He started off fast, punching the air as hard and fast as he can, and then gradually lowering the speed while maintaining a consistent power. No matter how many iterations he went through, none if it made sense. The faster he swung, the harder he hit; and the slower he swung, the weaker his punches were.

It felt awkward and uncomfortable, yet he continued to throw them out. He wanted to condition his body so that he’ll be comfortable with them. While the wind faintly whistled with every punch, he tried to make sense of that strike.

“How did he do it? A punch that’s slow and strong at the same time…” Morr pondered.

He threw out a few slow ones and then a few fast ones. Again and again he repeated the process, gradually accelerating and decelerating to find a hint. The only thing he knew that’s working was his body. Being covered in sweat and a constantly expanding chest convinced himself that he needed a break.

Morr sat down and looked at the pebbles on the floor. “Was it his muscles? No… His body was covered by a robe, but his muscles should be noticeable if it has the strength to do that.”

He slowly extended and contracted his arms once again. “Speed is definitely a part of power. But his speed was slow… so the power must be coming from another source. If it’s not speed, then it has to be…”

Morr placed his hand on the ground in a blind search for two rocks: one smaller and one bigger. He aimed at the metal bars attached to his door cell and threw the smaller rock. Upon impact, the rock gave off a light rang and fell to the other side of the door. Then he threw the bigger rock and listened to the sound of it. A heavier rang could be heard as the rock fully hit one of the bars and bounced back.

Comparing and contrasting the two different sounds sparked his interest. He got on all fours and delightfully gathered all the pebbles in the area. One stack of pebbles of a smaller variety piled onto his left side. Another stack of pebbles of a larger variety piled onto his right side. He threw with his left at a constant speed, then with his right in a rhythmic manner. The beautiful clanking sounds affirmed his thought: the heavier they are, the stronger the power.

“Speed and weight… but there’s still something missing. I’ll have to wait and ask Vogh for the answer.” Morr contemplated.

The repetitive action of punching the air resumed. In this boorish room with nothing to do, nothing to distract his mind, he found joy in doing this straining task. Countless repetitions mended his body natural and comfortable to the motions of punching. Those punches became more flexible and simplistic. It soon became second nature, freeing his mind so he wouldn’t have to focus so hard on every punch. But this wasn’t what he wanted.

The less occupied his mind was, the more susceptible they were to conjuring assumptions of his past. Thoughts like ‘how is his mother and father doing,’ ‘are they living well,’ ‘how many sleepless nights are they suffering,’ were thoughts he wanted to avoid. It pained him so much because he couldn’t even recall simple facts like how they look like, or what their names were. A sense of disgust creeped its way towards his heart whenever he’s reminded of how unfaithful he can be to the ones who nurtured him and loved him.

His small right fist was enshrouded in rage and repulsion. Substituting for the air was a thick stone wall that caged him in. Every thud, every strike against the wall caused vibration to travel from his knuckles to his bones. The solid thud sounds were soon accompanied by a mushy sound. Thick liquid dripping from his fist dirtied the ground in which he slept on.

“Damn it… Damn it all! STOP IT!” he urged himself. But he didn’t stop there. It was like an irrational itch that wouldn’t stop clawing his heart. The wall barely quake every few seconds. The solid thud sound diminished into a weaker, more lighter sound mixed with mushiness. After the twentieth hit, he balled up his left hand and rammed it through his left cheek. The boy crashed to the ground, smearing the puddle of blood onto the back of his clothes.

The pain that stroke his heart disappeared when no longer could feel the nerves in his hands. Underneath the skin and tissues of the hole in his knuckles were visible bones dressed in blood. Morr ripped apart his right sleeve with his left hand and wrapped his injured hand in it. The tightly wrapped cloth was held together by the clutch of his hand, and even that was a struggle.

Before letting his mind have a chance to wander, the boy mentally ran simulations of himself punching with only his left hand. He threw out a punch while snapping back his opposite shoulder, slightly twisting his hips, and pivoting with his foot. His hand turned in synchronous with the pivot of his foot. This type of punch would be useful in situations where he needed a few more inches. The image of Logan was fixated in his mind. The man’s natural height meant that Logan’s arms and legs were longer than his.

The passage of time flowed onwards whether the boy noticed it or not. A testament to that resided within his injured hand. Only after his mind had rested did he realize the mind-numbing pain twitching and aching around his knuckle. To distract his mind before he impulsively did anything extreme, he began to condition his lower body. He bit his lips and kicked methodically with both legs over and over. Front kick, side kick, back kick – they were simple to use and understand. Once comfortable with those simple kicks he transitioned into a roundhouse. The simulations running through his mind aided the progress of his execution.

The energy dormant in his body from the Salvation Ritual screamed “Use me! Use me!” He lost himself within the art of fighting. Kicking and punching, doing whatever felt natural to his body. Every attack yearned for that one dazzling hit that’ll stand out. To survive against all odds, he knew he can’t have anything short of perfection. All the pain were dwarfed by his sheer determination and fixation towards it. He was so fixated on his training that he didn’t notice the pain in his hand diminished with the passage of time.

And then… as expected, footsteps grew louder as someone approached his door.

Vogh peeked through the gaps of the metal bars. “It’s been quite a while. Do you still remember me?”

Morr paused and walked towards the door. “Vogh.”

Vogh sighed. The state of the boy’s body was completely disastrous. He had dark, underlying bags beneath his eyes. A blood-soaked cloth was wrapped around his right hand. Dirty clothe soaked with sweat lightly covered him. Exhaustion immediately came to mind just by taking one glance of his body.

“What happen to your hand?” Vogh asked.

Morr held out his hand so that it was visible under the light of the fickle torch. “Punishment.”

Vogh sighed again. “I’m beginning to worry about our chances of escaping.” The old man slipped a bag through the metal bars. “Here, eat it.”

Morr accepted the gift and opened the bag. In it were purple beans the size of a quarter. There were many of them, filling the small bag to the top.

Vogh commented, “Those are nutrient beans enhanced to their highest potential. They taste awful, but that’s because the beans are left in their rawest form. Don’t eat them all—“ His jaws dropped upon seeing the boy gobbling a handful of the beans. “Forget it…”

Morr’s face contorted upon realizing the disgusting taste. It was sour and acidic at its worst. The beans popped in his mouth with just one bite, and all those nasty flavors drained into his throat. One of them was bad enough, yet he shoved a handful of them into his mouth. He jumped back, coughing and hacking, hoping that those beans he ate would magically come back out.

“Unbelievable…” Morr said with disgust. He tied the string attached to the bag and stored it inside his pocket.

“Yeah,” Vogh laughed. “Now, let’s go.”

“Where to?” Morr questioned.

“It took some time for everyone to choose their candidates, but now it’s finally coming into play.” Vogh opened the cell’s door. “Follow me.”

Morr supported his injured hand with his other hand and trailed behind Vogh. In a matter of minutes, he realized how confusing and perplexed the interior was. They walked up a set of stairs, yet the scenery didn’t change at all. They made many turns through hallways and walked up a few stairs, but it was as if they never left his cell. Fickle torches, stone walls, cells with metal bars – it was all the same.

“How do you know where to go? Everything looks the same.” Morr asked while looking at his surroundings.

“Is it? If you spent long enough walking through these hallways, you began to notice the smaller details that separate this floor from the ones above or below.” Vogh answered. “But you should be worry about what’s coming next. I’ve told you about the power awaiting those at the top, right?”

“Something strong enough that will let us be free of this place, right?” Morr answered with his own question.

“It is. To get to it, you have to battle to the top through deathmatches. As it goes, only the one left standing can proceed upwards. This one will be similar to your fight with that girl, so prepare yourself.” Vogh instructed.

“Speaking of which, that guy with the girl – what was his name?” Morr asked.

“Logan. Don’t get yourself killed by him.” Vogh advised.

“What did he do with his fist? I felt a tremendous energy within his fist, yet it was moving so slowly” Morr inquired.

“Sharp. I didn’t expect you to sense it so soon after the ritual.” Vogh commended. “How do I explain it… Are you familiar with the world of magic?”

“No, I’m not. I only know that magic is favored to those of high status and you need mana to use it.” Morr answered.

“Hm… That’s not entirely accurate, but I can see where you’re coming from. To put simply: if mana is the basis of the sword of our mind, then chakra is the basis of the sword of our body. The power you felt within that fist was chakra, an energy entirely foreign to people unless they go through a similar ritual.” Vogh explained.

“So, he used that energy to strengthen his fist?” Morr asked.

“Correct. It’s a fairly basic refinement technique that I’m sure you can use if you spent enough time controlling the chakra within your body.” Vogh said.

They stopped upon a metal door with a metal bar locking it. Vogh lifted the bar and opened the door. “From now on it’s all you. Don’t get sidetracked. Kill them before they kill you. But the most important rule of all: stay alive.”

Stepping through the door, Morr immediately noticed a ball of light that looked similar to the one in the previous killing room. It floated high in the air at the center of the room. The room itself was awfully similar to the other rooms except for the absence of blood stains. The room curved inwards like a mound-shape, and the outer ring was completely dark.

He stepped from the outer ring and entered the light of the inner ring. Two people stood on the far corner, away from him, forming a triangle between the three of them.

The man on the far-left corner rolled on the ground with his knees tucked into his chest. His black shirt and pants were dyed with the dirt he collected from the ground. With eyes wide opened, the man didn’t seem to be showing any emotions from it.

A woman on the far-right corner had both her hands in her mouth, chewing on her nails. She wore a white, frilly blouse that was stained from back to front with blood. Her dry, frizzled hair and the slight motion of her head bobbing up and down caused Morr to be wary.